The Guardians(88)

Castle frowns and says, “Great. Just what I need.”

“We didn’t touch it, but we didn’t notice any bullet holes in the skull. Could be just another suicide.”

“I like the way you think, Post.”

“And there was no clothing at all. Anyway, we didn’t tell the Tafts, so it’s all yours.”

“Thanks for nothing.”





Chapter 44



Glenn invites Frankie and me to another round of Chinese food on the porch, but we beg off. I leave Seabrook late in the afternoon, with Frankie close on my tail as if to help guard my valuable cargo. It’s on the seat next to me where I can keep an eye on it. One little box with the flashlight, yet to be touched for the first time in decades, and one plastic bag holding a bloody shirt. We drive nonstop for three hours and get to Savannah just after dark. I lock the evidence in my apartment for the night so I can sleep beside it. Vicki is roasting a chicken, and Frankie and I are starving.

Over dinner, we debate driving versus flying to Richmond. I don’t want to fly because I don’t like the idea of subjecting our evidence to airport security. A bored agent could have a blast with our bloody shirt. The idea of another one fiddling with the flashlight is terrifying.

So we leave at five in the morning, in Frankie’s roomy and much more reliable pickup, with him behind the wheel and me trying to nap for the first leg. He starts nodding off just over the state line in South Carolina and I take the wheel. We pick up an R&B station out of Florence and sing along with Marvin Gaye. For breakfast we get biscuits and coffee at a fast-food drive-in window and eat on the road. We can’t help but laugh about where we were exactly twenty-four hours earlier. In the attic, terrified and expecting to be attacked by evil spirits. When Frankie recalls my violent vomiting when the skeleton almost jumped out of the closet, he laughs so hard he cannot eat. I remind him that he practically fainted. He admits he took a knee and actually grabbed for his Glock.

It’s almost 4:00 p.m. when we arrive in downtown Richmond. Kyle Benderschmidt has cleared the deck and his team is waiting. We follow him to a large room in his suite of labs. He introduces us to two colleagues and two technicians, and all five pull on surgical gloves. Two video cameras, one suspended directly above the table, the other mounted at one end, are activated. Frankie and I take a step back, but we’ll miss nothing because the eye-in-the-sky broadcasts simultaneously to a high-def screen on the wall in front of us.

Kyle addresses the camera at the end of the table and gives the names of everyone in the room, as well as the date, place, and purpose of the exam. He casually narrates what he’s doing as he removes the box from the plastic bag, opens it slowly, and removes the smaller bag holding the flashlight. He unzips it and places the prize on a white ceramic board, three feet square. With a ruler he measures its length—eleven inches. He explains to his audience that the black casing is some type of light metal, probably aluminum, with a textured surface that is not smooth. He assumes it will be difficult to find fingerprints. For a moment he becomes a professor and informs us that latent prints can remain on a smooth surface for decades if left untouched. Or, they can disappear quickly if the surface is exposed to the elements. He begins unscrewing the cap to remove the batteries, and specks of rust fall from the grooves. He softly shakes the flashlight and two D batteries reluctantly drop out. He does not touch them but says that batteries often have fingerprints. Smart burglars and other criminals almost always wipe off their flashlights, but often forget about the batteries.

I’ve never thought of this. Frankie and I exchange glances. Breaking news to us.

Kyle introduces a colleague named Max, who happens to be the better fingerprint guy. Max takes charge of the narrating as he leans over the two batteries and explains that since they are primarily black in color he will use a fine white powder, similar to talcum. With a small brush and a deft stroke he applies the powder to the batteries and says it will stick to the body oils left behind by the skin, should there be any. Nothing at first. He gently rolls the batteries over and applies more powder. “Bingo,” he says. “Looks like a thumbprint.”

My knees turn to rubber and I need to sit down. But I can’t do it because everyone is now looking at me. Benderschmidt says, “What about it, Counselor? Probably not a good idea to proceed with the print, right?”

I struggle to collect my wits. I convinced myself months ago that we would never find the killer. But—didn’t we just find his thumbprint?

I say, “Yes, let’s stop with the print. It’s probably headed for the courtroom, and I’d feel better if the Florida crime lab crew lifts it.”

“Agreed,” Kyle says. Max is nodding too. These guys are too professional to screw up evidence.

I have an idea. “Can we photograph it and send it to them now?”

“Sure,” Kyle says with a shrug and nods to a technician. He looks at me and says, “I suppose you’re rather eager to ID someone, right?”

“That’s correct, if it’s possible.”

The technician rolls in a contraption that is described as a high-resolution camera with an unpronounceable name, and they spend the next thirty minutes taking close-ups of the thumbprint. I call Wink Castle in Seabrook and get his contact with the state crime lab. He wants to know if we’ve made any progress and I say nothing yet.